


Gotta Love A Man in Uniform

by OfficialStarsandGutters



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: GGE, GGE 2017, Gallavich Gift Exchange, Gallavich Gift Exchange 2017, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-18
Updated: 2018-01-18
Packaged: 2019-03-06 11:01:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13409865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OfficialStarsandGutters/pseuds/OfficialStarsandGutters
Summary: Gallavich Gift Exchange for GallavichhellCop Mickey & EMT Ian-Hey, it's been a while since Ian's got laid, alright, and what's hotter than a man in uniform?





	Gotta Love A Man in Uniform

**Author's Note:**

> My Gallavich Gift Exchange for Gallavichhell / Alexa  
> Based on their prompt:  
> Cop Mickey, EMT Ian. They cross each other's paths a lot with Ian being called to crime scenes and stuff. Slowly start warming up to each other over time. Mickey has a run in with Liam, recognizes the last name and calls Ian. I don't care how they end up together! :)
> 
> I hope you like it!

Ian hops out of the back of the rig, bag over his shoulder, already moving towards the scene before Sue's even out of the driver's seat. It's a nice fall day; a little chill bite in the air, but mostly mild, bright. Not the kind of weather that causes crashes. It's the first road accident he's been called out for, and he's expecting blood, twisted metal, maybe smoke. What he sees is two cars with their hazard warning lights flashing, one looking unaffected, the other dented in on the passenger side door. There's a woman sitting on the sidewalk rubbing her neck, a younger woman standing above her typing on her phone. A man stands a bit away, smoking.

“Who was involved?” Ian asks, looking for injuries. The woman on her phone glances up.

“Us and him. I'm fine. My mom hurt her neck and cut her arm.”

Ian checks the woman over. He chalks the neck up to whiplash, and while there's a lot of blood, the gash on her arm isn't as bad as it looks. He goes through a few exercises with her to make sure she hasn't broken anything, by which point Sue has caught up with him. She takes over and Ian goes to talk to the man, who banged his chin against the wheel. He's got a nasty bruise coming in, and a bloody mouth from where he bit his cheek open, but nothing serious.

There's a cop already on scene. He crosses to them. Sue is cleaning up the older woman's arm, so Ian moves to report to him.

“What's the damage...” His eyes drop to Ian's badge. “Gallagher?”

“Nothing serious, officer-?”

“Milkovich.”

“Officer Milkovich. Looks worse than it is with all the blood.”

“Thought as much, but we gotta call it in. Procedure. Insurance purposes and all that crap.” Officer Milkovich turns and starts to walk away as he talks. Ian has to move after him just to stay in hearing range. He's a head shorter than Ian, with arched brows and eyes the kind of blue that shine like marbles when the sun hits them. “I ain't seen you around before. You new?”

“Yes sir.”

Those brows rise towards his hairline as he glances incredulously over his shoulder at Ian.

“This ain't boy scouts, Gallagher. You can drop the yes sir shit.”

Ian smiles in spite of himself.

“You know every EMT in the city, then?” There's a hint of cheek in his tone. The corner of Officer Milkovich's mouth twitches.

“Probably a good lot of them.” He pulls out a pack of smokes and a lighter. “This fuckin' intersection, man. Give it a year and you'll be sick of the sight of it. Always some bitches bangin' into each other on it.”

He lights his cigarette and takes a drag. Ian's brow furrows in concern.

“Should you be doin' that here? Y'know, on the scene?”

Mickey huffs out a laugh in an exhale of smoke.

“On the scene,” he repeats, shaking his head, amused. “Who's the cop here?”

“I just don't think you should-”

“Ey. Lotta things I shouldn't do. Just 'cause I'm a pig, don't mean I can't break a few rules.” He winks and turns away from Ian, pulling on a pair of sunglasses. Ian watches him go, wondering how someone like that ever made it on the force.

It takes him a moment to realise he's smiling again, and he has to force it from his face.

*

Mickey really hates his job sometimes. Taking an elbow to the nose sometime after 3am while attempting to break up a drunken brawl is one of those times. He's wiping blood from his face when a vaguely familiar lanky ginger in an EMT uniform appears in front of him.

“You alright?” he asks, eyes bright and concerned as they move over Mickey's face. “I could take a look at that for you.”

“Gallagher,” Mickey says, triumphant at remembering.

“Yeah.” Gallagher smiles, a crooked, lopsided grin. “Or Ian. Whichever.”

Ian starts to move closer, and Mickey is stunned, wondering if he's dreaming, but then Ian's thumbs come to frame his nose. Right. Not makin' a move, why would he be makin' a move? He probably ain't gay. Fuck, Mickey needs bed, like, now.

“Ey ey ey,” he says, stepping back as he swats Ian's hand away. “I'm fine. Ain't the first hit I've taken. Won't be the last.”

“I was just checking to see if it was-”

“It ain't broken.” Mickey spits to their right, saliva tainted red with blood. “I'll be fine.”

“Okay.” Ian brightens into a smile again. “If you're sure.”

“I am. The fuck you so chirpy at this hour? You been shootin' up on coffee or what?”

“Nah. Don't really drink coffee. Tryna keep my caffeine down.”

Mickey's eyebrows raise, before the narrowing of his eyes tugs them down again. He assesses Ian with judgement through tired eyes. How someone can survive these kind of shifts without coffee is beyond him, but to be practically jovial?

“Right.”

“Sure you don't want me to double check that?”

“I'm fine, Gallagher. Scram.”

Ian holds his hands up in mock surrender.

“Alright, _officer._ ” He practically purrs the word, the corner of his mouth curling into a smirk as he retreats. Mickey's stomach flops, sending ripples of liquid heat down to his cock. He looks around to see if his partner, Darnell, saw that. If anyone did. If anyone could confirm that it was not just a projection of his sleep deprived mind, but no one is looking near him.

*

Ian sees him now and again. His path seems to cross with cops more often now than it ever did growing up, which, with his background, is saying a lot. He sees other officers as well; it's not like every time he has to communicate with the police it's Officer Milkovich, but he's the one Ian always remembers. The brass, no shit attitude, his lack of care for rules and expectations of behaviour, and, well, okay, maybe the pretty eyes, toned arms, and curved ass might also factor in his being so memorable. Hey, it's been a while since Ian's got laid, alright, and what's hotter than a man in uniform?

Mostly their interactions are strictly work related. Ian always tries his best to remain professional, even though he'd really like to just have a general conversation with him sometimes. Officer Milkovich is less professional, often commenting on Ian's chirpiness, or complaining about work. On one occasion, he's at the side of the intersection they originally met on, cup of coffee in one hand, donut in the over.

“Told you, man. This fuckin' intersection.”

“You're just a walkin' stereotype, aren't you?” Ian grins, lopsided. Officer Milkovich's eyebrows shoot towards his hairline.

“The fuck you talkin' 'bout?”

“Cops.” Ian nods towards the half eaten donut. “Donuts.”

“Ey. So I got a sweet tooth. You tellin' me you don't like Krispy Creme?”

“No, but, cops and donuts is kind of a cliché, right?”

“Don't shit on my small pleasures, man. These are fueling my day.”

“Right.” Ian's lips press together in an expression of mock seriousness, and he nods soberly. Officer Milkovich punches him in the arm. “Don't you got work to do?”

“Yes. Can't all just stand around eatin' donuts.” Ian smirks, dancing out of reach of another blow with laughter bubbling up from his chest. “See you later, officer.”

Officer Milkovich shoves the rest of the donut in his mouth, freeing up his hand so he can flip Ian off.

It's a week later that Trevor talks him into going to the game with him and his boyfriend, Darnell.

“It was meant to be this double date thing with some of our mutuals, but they bailed last minute, so we've got extra tickets,” Trevor says. “None of our joint friends are available, so we agreed we'd ask one person each. You in?”

“I dunno. I don't really follow sports.”

“Hey, man, neither do I. Like, please, come, be clueless with me.”

“I don't want to be a third wheel.”

“You totally won't. Like I said, Dar is bringing someone, too. C'mon. It'll be fun. You're always complaining we only ever go partying.”

“Fine.” Ian sighs. “I'll come.”

“Wow. Glad to see you're so excited about it.”

Ian kicks him under the table.

Darnell picks him up the next evening, and Ian slides into the back seat. He rolls his eyes at Darnell's hand on Trevor's thigh as he drives and hopes that whoever his friend is is cool, that he won't be left feeling like the awkward tag along. Ian looks at Darnell's side profile, what he can see of it. He looks familiar. Ian's nose screws up as he tries to place him.

“Hey, you're a cop, right?”

“Yeah, I am,” Darnell says, flashing a smile in the rear view mirror.

“I knew I recognised you from somewhere.” Then Ian looks towards Trevor. “You never told me Darnell was a cop!”

“You never asked,” Trevor says. “No offence, but you can kinda be a bit self centred, Ian. Which is cool, like I've got counsellor training, I'm a good listener, but it means you don't really ask a lot about me.”

“Huh.” Ian blinks, stunned at this new information, and feeling a bit guilty for paying so little attention to Trevor. He makes a mental note to work on that “So who else is coming?”

“A guy I work with; Mickey. He's cool,” Darnell says.

“He big into football?”

“Nah, I don't think he's really into sports. I invited him 'cause he don't seem like he gets out much outside of work. Thought socialising with some new people might be good for him. Don't tell him I said that, though. He'd kick my ass.”

“My lips are sealed.” Ian makes a show of zipping his lips. He watches the streets slide by as they drive, and it's only ten minutes until Darnell stops the car and fires off a text. Moments later, the front door of the house opens, and a dark haired man makes his way down the path. It takes Ian a moment to recognise him.

“Wait. You work with Officer Milkovich?”

“Yeah,” Darnell says. “He's my partner.”

Mickey opens the car door opposite from Ian. He leans down, head appearing and blue eyes taking Ian in. Ian blinks back, surprised, before he flashes a dorky smile at him.

“Gallagher?”

“Hi.” Ian gives an awkward wave, and immediately regrets how stupid it must look. He tucks his hands beneath his thighs to prevent any more awkward flailing on their part. “Ian is fine, since we're off duty. Mickey, right?”

Mickey's eyes flick to meet Darnell's in the mirror, before he nods and drops into the seat across from Ian, slamming the door. He looks good. He's in a dark blue button down shirt that goes well with the lightness of his skin, and compliments his blue eyes.

“What ya lookin' at?” Mickey raises an eyebrow and Ian realises he's been staring. His cheeks heat and he turns to look out his window.

“Nothing.”

Mickey and Ian are quiet through most of the ride. Darnell and Trevor are in their own couple bubble; warm tones, familiar ease, the pattern of their conversation flowing naturally. Ian risks another glance at Mickey after five minutes of this.

“What are the chances, eh?”

“Yeah.” Mickey huffs a laugh through his nose. Ian can't believe he looks even better out of uniform. How is this fair?

“So, uh, I hear you're about as enthusiastic as I am about football.”

“Ey, I like fuckin' about and throwin' a ball around as much as the next guy, but I ain't got time to be keepin' up with all those teams and leagues and shit.”

“Too busy keeping up with the Kardashians?”

Mickey looks at him with a stunned expression, before his face darkens and he jams his knee into the back of Darnell's chair.

“What have you been sayin' about me?”

“Fuck, Mick.” Darnell shifts, scowling. “I didn't say anything.”

“It wasn't him,” Ian said. “You were reading one of those gossip mags one night. You had it open on a Kardashian interview. It was the old drunk guy that fell off one of the dryers at the twenty four hour laundromat?”

“Fuck, Gallagher. That was like ass o'clock in the mornin'. How you even remember this crap?”

“Mickey doesn't remember anything between two and seven,” Darnell says.

“More like one and nine.”

“Seriously. We make plans sometimes and he bails 'cause he can't remember them.”

“It's not bailing if I don't remember, and you should know better than to make plans with me at ass o'clock.” Mickey gives Darnell's chair another stab with his knee for good measure. Ian chuckles, and Mickey's eyes flick to him, expression smug that he's gotten a reaction.

“Glad you're here, Gallagher,” Mickey says, as they're heading into the stadium. Trevor and Darnell walk in front, holding hands. Trevor is a good head shorter than Darnell but he is so much more animated; hands waving as he talks, bouncing on his feet, speaking enthusiastically. Darnell watches him with a soft look of affection. “Would have sucked third wheelin'.”

“Yeah, I know, right?” He glances at the couple in front of them. So does Mickey, just in time to see Trevor bounce up and kiss Darnell sweetly before he continues talking as if the interruption never happened.

“Though, is it possible for two people to feel like a third wheel?”

“Maybe.” Ian laughs. Mickey makes a show of gagging. Ian gives him a light push but the pair of them end up giggling together. Trevor looks over his shoulder with raised brows and both Ian and Mickey flash him innocent expressions.

The stadium is loud, bright, crowded. Ian feels a little overwhelmed with sensory overload when he walks in, fingers curling and flexing at his side. He wants to turn to Trevor to ground him, but he feels awkward imposing on him and Darnell, and he's still thinking about the self centred comment. His thumb draws along the denim of his jeans, trying to focus on that one sensation.

“You alright?” Mickey asks, voice quiet like he doesn't want to draw attention to Ian. Ian smiles automatically.

“Yeah, I just- Yeah.”

He and Trevor go to get drinks and he feels calmer, taking the few minutes out of the crowd to calm and steady himself. Trevor gets some popcorn for him and Darnell to share, so Ian buys some candy. He drops the bars into Mickey's lap when he returns.

“What's this?” Mickey asks, brows raised.

“Sweet tooth, right?”

“Uh, yeah.” Mickey grins; a little wild, unaffected, but there's definitely a blush tainting his cheeks. “Thanks.”

“No problem.”

They spend most of the game having their own ridiculous commentary of what's happening. Ian cradles the plastic cup of beer to his ribs, and even though he's been drinking it super slow, stretching out the one drink, he still feels the warm tingling rush of tipsiness already. It makes him bolder, and he touches Mickey's arm when they talk, leans in close to talk to him and catch his responses, presses against his side when he vibrates with laughter. When they're not making fun of the teams, they're complaining about being stuck with a couple every time Trevor and Darnell do anything vaguely couple-y.

“I don't really think I know anything more about football after that,” Ian says in the car, warm and sleepy, but happy, gently content from spending an evening with good people.

“Me neither,” Trevor says.

“Fuck no,” says Mick.

Darnell just shakes his head and laughs.

“Thanks for the invite, Dar,” Mickey says when they stop at his house. “Was more fun than I expected.”

“No problem, Mick. See ya tomorrow.”

“Bye Mickey,” Trevor chimes in.

“See ya around, officer,” Ian says, rolling the r in officer. Mickey snorts and flips him off.

“Later, Gallagher.”

Ian laughs as he closes the door, watching him (specifically, his ass) as he walks up the path. When Ian turns, he finds Trevor watching him intently.

“What?”

“Well, for all the complainin' you did of being the third wheel, you guys acted way more like a couple than we did.”

“What? No we didn't.”

“You totally did. Darnell?”

“Whatever you say, babe.”

“Whipped much?” Ian says.

“Nah, he prefers the paddle.” Trevor winks and drops back into his seat.

“TMI, Trev, TMI.”

“You're deflecting. All that giggling and touching and whispering to each other.”

“We weren't- I'm a touchy drunk.”

“I know you can hold more than one watered down beer, Ian. That just loosened you enough to act how you wanted.”

“You're wrong,” Ian says, very aware that Darnell is Mickey's partner and could easily report this back. No way he wants to live with the potential of that humiliation at work. No sir, thank you.

“I'm totally right,” Trevor says, smug. “I'm always right.”

*

Mickey's tired. He's sore. His feet, particularly, are aching. He changes out of his uniform before he leaves the station, waving off Darnell's offer of a ride home in favour of getting some air. He walks a few blocks before deciding that what he really wants is a drink, and changes direction to head to his usual bar.

“Hey, yeah, can I get a beer.” Mickey digs out his wallet while the bartender cracks open a bottle, handing across a ten dollar bill. He glances around the bar while he waits for his change; still pretty quiet at this time of the evening. A group of women with cocktails and shopping bags, a couple of older men, a few young workers in corporate wear unwinding after work like him. Then in the corner, a flash of colour. Mickey narrows his eyes, and the redhead lifts his head from his hands to drink, allowing Mickey to see his face. Gallagher.

“Thanks.” He takes his change and lifts his bottle, moving towards him, a smile automatically curling at the corner of his mouth. “Hey.”

Ian looks up at him. His mouth is a thin, serious line. His eyes look a little red rimmed, and he looks paler than usual, unwell. Mickey's smile falls into a frown and he drops down on the other side of the table.

“Ey, man, you alright?”

“Fine,” Ian says, absently waving away the concern. Mickey reaches across and squeezes his arm, looking at him with brows raised in disbelief. “I just- Bad day. It's nothin'.”

“What happened?”

“I don't wanna talk about it. It's- You don't need to hear. I wouldn't wanna-” Ian trails off with a sigh.

“If I didn't wanna know, I wouldn't have asked.”

“You're just bein' nice, though. People do that.”

“Gallagher. When the fuck have you ever known me to 'just be nice'?” Mickey raises his brows, and Ian's eyes flick up, a quick flash of amusement before his face shuts down again.

“It's just... Work stuff.”

“What kind of work stuff?”

Ian sighs and slumps back into his chair, sinking down. His leg brushes against Mickey's knee beneath the table. Mickey pretends he doesn't notice, didn't feel a tingling spark from the contact.

“We, uh. We had a suicide call today.”

“Oh, shit, are they-?”

“No, she was fine. Just about. This kid, barely fifteen. Shitty neighbourhood. Probably shitty parents. Fuck. She hasn't even lived and she's already ready to give up. And yeah, okay, we got her this time, but she's just gonna be tossed back out into that to deal with it again. Mental health care in this country fuckin' sucks.” Ian sighs heavily and downs the rest of his beer.

“Sucks, man. Glad the kid is okay, though.”

“Yeah, I just- It's thrown me off. I-” Ian hesitates. He glances at Mickey, open and vulnerable, as if assessing if he can trust him. Eventually, he looks out the window and speaks. “See, I'm bipolar.”

“Oh,” Mickey says, silently wondering if Ian should even be an EMT.

“Yeah. So. Mental health cases hit me harder, I guess. Not that- I hate bad accidents, too. Hate when I can't save someone, but with... With the mentally ill people, y'know, it's not like a cut where I can wipe away the blood or a broken arm I can make a sling for. There's nothing I can do, and I know that, because I've been on both sides. I know most of the time they don't even want help, and I just- I feel useless.”

“You're not useless, Ian,” Mickey says quietly. Ian laughs; a wet sound, and absently palms at one pink rimmed eye.

“That's the first time you've called me by my first name.”

Mickey huffs a laugh, but he's clever enough to know Ian's diverting attention. He reaches across in a moment of impulse and squeezes Ian's arm, just above the wrist, lets his hand linger when he speaks.

“You save people every day. If it weren't for you and your team, half the 911 calls wouldn't even make it to hospital, but you can't save everyone. It's shit, and it's hard, but you can't. And you can't go blamin' yourself for the ones that you can't.”

Ian's lips part, but he doesn't seem to have words. He gives a weak nod. Mickey's sure his words haven't made much an impact, but he's never been great with words. Feelings. Forming the mess in his head into sentences, or reading into other people's cues. All he knows is that he's never seen Ian look like that. Even when he's exhausted and covered in vomit, he always manages a smile, always looks bright and lively. Mickey feels like he's glimpsed behind the curtain. It's a privilege in a way, something he's sure Ian doesn't let everyone see, but it still feels fuckin' awful.

“Lemme get you another beer.”

“Thanks, Mick.”

Mickey sits with Ian for over an hour, moving the conversation onto lighter topics. He does most of the talking. Ian is uncharacteristically quiet, nodding when appropriate, subdued smiles and quiet laughs. At least he's smiling again. Mickey counts that as a win, weak as those smiles may be.

“C'mon, we can split a cab home.”

“You don't gotta-”

Mickey waves off any protest.

“You said you only live a few streets over, right? Let's go.”

Ian's unsteady when he gets to his feet, and Mickey wonders how long he's been here, how many drinks in he was before he arrived.

“Ey man, how much you have to drink?”

“Two beers before you came, and those two.”

“You some kinda lightweight?”

Ian laughs, bitter, sharp edged.

“Fuckin' meds. Make me a lightweight.”

“Should you even be drinkin' if you're takin' meds?” Mickey's brow scrunches together.

“Thought you were all about breaking rules,” Ian murmurs, leaning in close, his breath warm against Mickey's cheek. Mickey's stomach flutters, but he knows now isn't the time. Ian's upset, drunk, vulnerable; if anything were to happen now it would be soiled.

“Alright, lets get you home.” Mickey ducks down beneath Ian's arm to steady him as he orders an Uber. He directs them to Ian's address first, guiding him to the front door despite Ian's protests.

“Get some rest, Gallagher.”

“That an order, officer?”

“Yes.” Mickey sucks in his lower lip, rolling it between his teeth. “Now get your ass to bed.”

Ian laughs and salutes him before he disappears into the house.

It's only on the way home that Mickey wishes he had of gotten Ian's number to check in on him later.

*

“Hey,” Ian says. Mickey glances up with some evident surprise. Ian's hands curl inside the cuffs of his hoody before he gives Mickey a little wave.

“Gallagher.” Mickey's eyebrows raise, then his brow furrows as he looks Ian over. “No uniform?”

“Ah, no, I was just coming back from the- an appointment.”

“Oh.”

“I thought that was you. Gonna get more donuts?” he manages a crooked smile, a hint of cheek behind it, but it feels fake on his face. All his movements feel stiff and surreal, like he's moving through jello. He's just come from the doctors, meds readjusted to try and balance out this low, but the next handful of weeks are going to be shit.

“Mostly coffee, but, now that you mention it-”

Ian laughs and holds the door to the donut place for Mickey. He lets Mickey order first, then steps up beside him and addresses the cashier.

“I'll cover that.”

“What? No,” Mickey says, but Ian ignores him and hands cash across.

“It's no big deal, Mick. I just wanted to say thanks. For... Last week.”

“Ey, that was nothin'.”

“'Cept it wasn't. You didn't have to deal with me. You didn't have to listen, and you definitely didn't have to get me home. It was more than a lotta people would have done.”

“I'd have been a dick not to,” Mickey says, scowling.

“Well, I appreciate it. I'll, uh, see ya around, okay? Enjoy your donuts.”

As Ian steps back into the cold, he feels a little warmer, a little less numb.

*

“We got a crash on East Wallace,” Darnell says when Mickey gets back into the car, coffee cups in a cardboard holder and donut bag in his other hand. He's outside the same place he last saw Ian, but it's been over a fortnight since he's run into him. He kinda misses him. Not that he'd admit it.

“I'm tellin' you, they wait until I'm about to eat. Every time.”

“That's it,” Darnell says, starting the car. “Criminals are solely out to sabotage you. How'd you know?”

Mickey rolls his eyes as they pull out of the car park, siren blaring.

“Shut up and drive.”

“Okay, Rhianna.”

It's an old beat up car that's crashed. Hard to tell how much damage it sustained and how many of those dents were in the car before the collision. The ambulance is already on scene, and Mickey's eyes do a quick skim of the uniformed EMT's. No familiar red hair though. He tries not to feel disappointed, shoving the last bite of his donut in his mouth before he gets out with Darnell to assess the damage.

There's a woman on the sidewalk, bloodied head, shouting at the EMT trying to clean her up.

“He's my baby, give him back.”

“Ma'am, please. We're just making sure he's okay.”

At the mention of a kid, Mickey immediately turns his attention to the other EMT. A man stands over her while she talks to a child, arms folded across his chest.

“You alright, little man?” Mickey asks, coming across. The boy nods. He looks to be in pain, but he is not crying.

“Looks like a broken bone,” the EMT tells him. “Gonna have to take him in for an X Ray.”

“What happened?”

“It's a disgrace,” the man says. “I'm the one that called it in. Woman's off her head. Swerving all over the place. Think she's on something, and she had the kid in her lap. He took the worst of the impact.”

Mickey's eyes flick from the man to the boy.

“Why don't you go give your statement to my partner over there,” he says. “He'll record it for you.”

Once he's gone Mickey crouches down beside the boy.

“I'm Officer Milkovich,” he says. “But how about you just call me Mickey, alright?”

The boy nods.

“You wanna tell me your name?”

“Liam.”

“Hi, Liam. What happened when you were in the car?”

Liam's eyes go wide, flicking briefly to the shouting woman before they come back to Mickey, clearly afraid of saying the wrong thing.

“It's okay, Liam. You won't get in trouble, I promise, alright? But you gotta tell me the truth. Who's that you were with?”

“My mom,” Liam says, quiet, lowering his head.

“Was your mom letting you drive, Liam?” Mickey watches closely. Liam doesn't respond, which is just as good as an answer. “Work with me, kid. We're gonna find out the truth eventually. Lot easier if you tell me now.”

“Yes,” Liam mumbles.

“Okay. Do you have anyone that can come to the hospital with you, Liam? Your dad live nearby?”

“He's away.”

“Away where?”

“Just away.”

“Okay.” Mickey stands, flicking his thumb across his top lip a couple of times before he crosses to Darnell for an update.

“Licence is for a Monica Gallagher, but it expired years ago. No answer from any of the connected contact numbers.”

“Wait. Gallagher?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Aw, shit. Liam Gallagher.”

“Like... Oasis?”

“No, not like fuckin' Oasis. It's Ian's brother. He mentioned him before.”

“Shit, yeah.”

“Right. You take care of her. I'm goin' to the hospital with the kid. Can you get Ian's number from Trevor and forward it to me?”

“Wait, Mickey-”

“Please. Thank you.” He's off before Darnell can argue, joining the EMTs as they guide a sling armed Liam into the back of their rig.

“Ey, Liam, you got a brother called Ian?”

Liam nods.

“Well, it just so happens, I know your brother. So I'm gonna get him to come meet us at hospital, okay? But I'll stay with you 'til then. So you don't gotta be scared 'bout bein' on your own.”

Liam looks up and smiles shyly at him.

“Thanks.”

“No problem, kid.”

While Liam's getting his arm x-rayed, Mickey phones Ian.

“Hello?”

“Uh, hey. Is this Ian?”

“Yeah. Who's this?”

“It's Mickey. Milkovich.”

“Oh, hey, Mickey.” Ian sounds surprised, but not displeased.

“Mickey? Like, hot cop Mickey?” he hears a female voice in the background. Then, muffled rustling like Ian's moving the phone away.

“Shut up, Sue!”

“Ian?”

“Yeah, yeah, still here. Wait, how'd you even get my number?”

“Trevor.”

“Oh.”

“Look, I'm callin' about Liam.”

“Liam?”

“Yeah. He's your brother, right?”

“Yes. Yes, he is.” Any amusement fades from Ian's voice, replaced with serious concern. “Has something happened? Is he okay?”

“He's fine, mostly. He was in a car accident with someone called Monica?”

Ian sighs, heavy and crackling across the line.

“He might have a broken arm. Ain't none of Monica's contacts picking up, but I didn't want to just leave him.”

“Thanks, Mickey. I'm just in work. I'll be there as soon as I can.”

It turns out that as soon as he can is little less than fifteen minutes, as Liam's in the same hospital Ian works at. He's flushed when he arrives, brow furrowed, hard and angry. Mickey's listening to Liam animatedly talk about school. He glances up just as Ian's expression starts to soften at the pair of them, before it screws up in annoyance again.

“Fuckin' Monica,” he says. “She did this with Carl a few years back, too.”

Every movement shows how angry he is. He storms across, body wound tight, shoulders squared, limbs stiff. Then he melts as he kneels in front of Liam, touching his knee.

“Hey, bean. You okay?”

“Broked my arm,” Liam says. “I'm gonna get a cool cast on it, then everyone at school can sign it.”

“Can I sign it too?” Ian asks, and Liam nods with enthusiasm. “Does it hurt?”

“Just a lil.”

“Brave boy. Anything else hurt?”

“My head hurt some, but it's okay now.”

“We're just waitin' for the nurse to take him for the cast,” Mickey says.

“Thanks, Mickey. For bringing him and lettin' me know.”

“'Course, man.”

Ian scoops Liam up with a gentleness that makes Mickey's chest ache. He sits and props Liam on his knee, taking so much care not to knock his arm, asking him some softly worded questions about what happened and if he's sure he's okay. Feeling like he's intruding, Mickey slips away to get Liam a juice from the vending machine.

“Thanks,” Ian smiles at him, looking tired but grateful.

“Liam Gallagher?” A nurse appears around the corner. Ian raises a hand.

“That's us. Thanks again, Mickey. I'll take him from here.”

Mickey nods, watching as he carries Liam down the hall. Liam waves his good hand, clenched around his juice box, at Mickey over Ian's shoulder. Mickey waves back.

*

It's not unusual for the Gallagher house to be in a state of chaos, but Monica's return always takes that chaos into hyper drive. The next week is rife with arguments, screaming matches, drama that the Gallagher children are all very much over by this stage. Ian becomes fiercely protective of Liam, insisting on being that one that leaves and lifts him from school, only allowing Lip to share in caring duties. Eventually, in the face of her children's stubborn dismissal, storm Monica blows off to elsewhere again.

Ian hasn't really had a chance to think much of Mickey during the week, but once things calm down, it occurs to him just how above and beyond he went. Ian feels guilty for not having acknowledged that more at the time. He checks in with Trevor (who checks in with Darnell) to see when Mickey is next free, taking the gamble that he'll be home and heading to his house.

Mickey appears, bleary eyed and flushed, looking soft and sleep warm in a pair of sweats and a tank.

“Gallagher?”

“Hey.” Ian smiles, taking him in. “Did I wake you?”

“Must have fallen asleep on the couch. Fuckin' night shifts.” Mickey yawns widely, squinting through sleepy eyes. “The fuck you here for?”

Ian laughs, warm, fond.

“Charming.” He holds up the bag of donuts and the coffee cup. “Wanted to say thanks. For last week. I was so mad I don't think I even thanked you properly at the time.”

“Hey, man, Understandable, and anyway, you don't gotta thank me for nothin'. Just doin' my job.”

“That was a bit more than your job calls for, Mick. But if you'd prefer I just eat these myself...”

“Ey!” Mickey snatches the bag from Ian. “I wouldn't go that far.”

“There's another reason I'm here, too,” Ian says, feeling a flutter of nerves in the base of his stomach. Mickey's eyebrows raise in that familiar, endearing way.

“What?”

Instead of answering, Ian moves forward. His hand comes up to cradle the sleep mussed mess of Mickey's hair as he moulds their lips together. Mickey's are softer than he expected, contrasted to the slight scrape of stubble. Ian can feel the heat of his skin against his. Mickey makes a soft, surprised sound, before his arms are around Ian's shoulders, pulling him close and licking into his mouth with a dominant swipe of tongue. Ian parts his lips immediately, feels heat pool between his thighs at the first slide of Mickey's tongue. They stay like that for several long moments, tasting each other, gripping each other, until Ian pulls back an inch.

Mickey's eyes blink open, so blue beneath his dark lashes. His cheeks are even more flushed now than they were when he opened the door. His lips are damp and plush. It's an effort for Ian not to kiss him again immediately.

“I, uh. Was wonderin' if you'd wanna hang out some time,” he says,

“Yeah, alright,” Mickey says, words casual even as he continues to blush. “How 'bout now?”

Mickey takes half a step back, bumping the door open with his hip in an invitation that makes Ian feel hot and tingly.

“Now is perfect,” he says, smirking as he steps after Mickey. Mickey grins back, tongue poking at the corner of his mouth until Ian closes the distance between them again.

*

“I knew it,” Trevor says when he finds out. “Told you I'm always right.”

 


End file.
